On  the Sable  Mound of   Sand.         

On the sable stark mound of sand,                                                                                                       

Recline you  for  a  mood of  band                                                                                     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

 Of  Rock, rock  of singers, revel

and  roll like  roller coaster: Level

your  high rising  mind and  mood

in tune  with  the  roars of  black hood                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

of watery  sheets  off  fossils

 and rood like  avid gossips.                       

The  sea thrills in the company

Of lonely ,  meditative,  to  accompany               

Its  true, warm  friends  who  sail

In the  same  boat of  steady   mail.                           

        

He draws Inspiration

        He  draws inspiration.

  In the Frisbee  like  breadcrumb,

Layer of  yesterday  protection  of the thumb,

He  draws   a  typical  layout ,

Of his  dream   and dignity  tout.

He   refuses  to  put it

In the   Mouth, holds it

On the  artistic  brush

And to  breathe life  and blush.

                                                                                    

Every breaking wave..

  Every  breaking  wave

Every  breaking  wave has its  verve

For  the  frothy  foam is  the  recurrent

Breath of life’s   nodes .

The  watery  free play  has its

Roots   in the throb of  the Blue.

Ageless, ceaseless   and  fathomless,

It  nullifies  man’s  angst  less.

For   his  is  a   self-made  conflict.

The turgid flow of  man’s pride

Runs   behind   the  dashing  waves.

Ocean  is   a   huge  gyrating  hawk.

Love speaks

 Love  speaks.

Love tapped in my shoulders, then,

Slowly in my  dream, as if giving us

A wake up call.  I am  not  Dead , nor

A deadwood, but   a feeling not eschewed

But propagated in  all circles.  Poets,

Writers, thinkers and  artists embellished :

All enthroned me and some even condoned me

According  to their moods.  I did  not  wail,

For  I  know  the nature of  the world.

 They call me a  Red Rose, or  Blue

Or  white as serenity sometimes 

A  black rose or  deadly corroding evil.

I cannot define myself for  the concept

Itself is   conundrum. But  still I go on

Like  a  rivulet  or stream.

     In my own  house.

In my own  house, everywhere,

Every cupboard  overflows

With   books  of  ancient galore,

and  modernity ,both  for

Teaching   and  Research

And  Knowledge  to  update

With  the current  affairs.

Only  enough Time is  not

For  me. Why  Time  should

Care  for  my  avocations?

Occupations. It  flies  on its

Scheduled  Wings  and

Predestined  Chart.

 I sit   and  ruminate,

 In my yesteryear, in  my

Palatial  house of  grandparents

Books  were  there. Upanishads

Vedas   and Puranas  rich

In  grandsire’s   room  and

How  he  divided  his time

Between  cows   and milking

and greens   and  drawing  water

filling  tubs.  My grandmother

a  devout, patient  woman,

silent  sufferer. I read  her

example, a  notable   Book

for  me. This  book  lives 

with  me, going  before me.

  

Bards and places of Historic Grandeur.

       Bards  and  Historic  Grandeur.

In  every country, every history,

Every era, Bards  are revered  

With  laurels  and  honours

to  be  recognised.  With

Warp  and  weave of  fertile

Imagination, they work  the

Expertise  poetic  craft.

  London! the  pride of  great

 Bardic   poets and  rich  legacy

Of  Monarchy  and   Westminster

Abbey   and  tombs  and  monuments .

Ye!  also  preserve  the Glory

and   perpetuation of  victory

of  kings   and warriors   and 

queens   and  reigning  sceptres .

In  India  too,  the battlefield

Is the  celebrated  place of  Janana

Or  wisdom   and realization.

For   the  kings  like  Ashoka,

The  realization  of  loss of  blood

And necessity of abrogation of

Enmity   stuck in the   war field.

Batons   and   swords    admirably

Were  nullified  by Peace.

Bow  before  them  all.

Nourish   the  path 

And   hoist  the flag

Of  Victory.